The Mighty Winchesters
by ImpalaLove
Summary: A collection of Supernatural oneshots that will mostly revolve around the brothers. Open to suggestions for stories! Any possible spoilers/warnings will be listed at the beginning of each new addition.
1. Brother brother brother

**Hey! So to celebrate my 50th story on this site, I'm thinking of making this one a kind of random collection of little oneshots. Right now I have several sitting around that I'd like to get posted, but I'll definitely be open to suggestions if you guys have any ideas/preferences for fics. For now, here's the first story (no spoilers for this one):**

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**Brother Brother Brother**

Eyes squinted, forehead pulled down like he's always waiting for bad news.

It's more than wrinkles that crawl above his brilliant eyes now. It's a permanent indentation, a testament to all the bad news he's already been subjected to in this life.

But even still, he finds reasons to smile. He embraces the sun that glances off his worn features, grows still when the wind calls his name, making sure he captures every word, memorizes every instruction. He glides over broken glass, won't let the shards dig too deep into his heels, moving too fast to think about the pain. The blood takes a long time to dry, pushing into the fibers of haunted vanilla carpets and the rusty nails of abandoned staircases he finds his way to next. But the story's not over and the pages, though ragged, have not yet run out, their words still spilling onto the ground and pulling apart the fabric of the spaces of the places they loved. He swipes calloused hands over the smattered canvas of this brutal life, sifting through puzzle pieces until he finds the ones enveloped in golden laughter and firm embraces and brother brother brother.

There's a light to these fragments, and he picks them out from the shadows, arranges them in a halo above his own head, though he knows he's no angel. It's just a way to keep the pieces close, just so he can find them when the rest of his mind is shrouded in the darkness he'll never fully escape. It is a constant companion, and he has learned to carry its weight, shoulders strengthened from the load as the years have flown by with little more than a passing glance. Looking back now though, he can see the marks they've left. The story of those years is carved into his skin, wrinkles and scars and callouses that pull at the edges of his eyes, wrap around his bruised torso, press firmly against his fingertips. He holds the sky in those fingertips, fills in the spaces between the clouds with his own mural, a map that leads to reconstructed walls and open arms and brother brother brother.

He'll never cease to move, even when bones turn brittle and hair turns gray. Mostly because he knows he won't last that long. His life is a series of burning stars that disappear with the sun's renewal and have actually been snuffed out a long time ago, now just waiting for the rest of the world to realize that time is up. It just means he has to move a little faster than most, which he does already. It comes with the territory, with the tracking and following and destroying of the evil that won't rest. Sleep is a luxury and a curse, a smattering of nightmare and memory and light and, if he's lucky, brother brother brother.

He doesn't know how much longer the strings of this mission will pull him along, but he hopes for an end in one form or another. When he walks, he scrapes his fingers along the walls of every corridor, drags his feet through the dirt of every graveyard. This is his gift to the world, the evidence of his passing through, and his weary steps leave behind a faint trail of where he's been, all that he has seen. He leaves people behind too; strangers, lovers, friends, family. It is the harsh reality of this life, and he knows the hollow pit of loss better than most. It has burrowed permanently into the center of his stomach, its shadow curling lazily around the glowing heart that rests just out of reach, still pumping scarlet and alive. But he does not wander these roads alone. His fate is sealed with the one who sits beside him, the one who strangles darkness in his fiery fists and calls him brother brother brother.

The world is sinking and this life is ending with the swift cut of a blade and the sharp gasp of what shouldn't be surprise. He knows the way the light fades, has felt the soft, slippery pelt of unconsciousness as she pulls him towards the end, but he has to find something before he lets himself go. It's there, in the back of his layered mind, trying to push through the glowing sparks that flood his vision and seem to circle out from the center of the world. He can still feel the rain on his face and he can still understand the words that fall from trembling lips but nothing else matters except the one who holds him here for just a few more moments. He knows when the halo of light he's erected around himself shatters completely, can understand what all these dancing shadows mean but he won't take the time to count them because the breath that's left is used to utter that one word for this one last time.

Brother brother brother.

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**Thanks for reading! Also, in terms of suggestions for future stories, I'm open to pretty much anything besides slash or Destiel stuff- it's just not really my style. And a special thank you to all of you who have read and reviewed over the course of my little fanfiction journey haha I really really appreciate it! **


	2. Lighthouse

**No spoilers for this one. It's another "choose your own brother" deal; I kind of became obsessed with those and have a couple more lying around that I'll also post on here at some point. Anyways, enjoy!**

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**Lighthouse**

There's this painting I know. This painting that seems like it shouldn't matter so much, except that it does. I saw it for the first time when I was eight years old, propped up on one of the walls in a small community arts center. We were on a school field trip, one of the few I got to go on because we moved around so much. Before this field trip, I really didn't care all that much about art. I still don't, actually. It's just this one. This one painting I could never get out of my head.

I saw it again six years later, a photocopy of this same painting plastered on the wall of a classroom, shining and laminated and peeling off at the corners. First day at another new school and there it was, glistening like a goddamn beacon or something. Like it had been waiting for me.

I don't even know what it is about this picture. There's no deeper meaning really, it's just a landscape. Just this picture of a huge, roiling sea, waves crashing over rocks and spilling onto beaches, foaming white. There's a few generic seagulls flying overhead, wings spread wide as they ride with the wind. But there's just something about it. Like...if you saw this painting, you would probably say that it's alive. I don't know. I mean there's something about those waves that just seem unstoppable. Unrelenting. If you really look at it, you can watch them move. You can see these thick plumes of blue crash over and over again onto this eroding rock, this sharp patchwork of stone that lines an empty beach.

But then, if you look even closer, you see this lighthouse. There's this tiny little lighthouse that sits up on one of those dying rocks with the waves crashing over it. And it just looks so old and worn. The details of this lighthouse are there if you look close enough. The peeling paint, the cracked wood, the rusted railing that wraps all the way around. And if you really lean in, if you literally push your face right up to this tiny little lighthouse that sits on this peeling rock that fights against this enormous ocean, you can see it. This crumbling, dying, poor excuse for a lighthouse isn't completely snuffed out. There's still a tiny flicker of light coming from the top of that tower. Just this tiny little dot of yellow dabbed onto the canvas. For all I know it could've been an accident; a slip of the artist's hand. But that little fleck just gets me for some reason. It just seems like the only part of that whole painting that means anything at all.

I see this painting again. Now. I picture it in my head, pull it out of so many lost memories as I stand in the middle of the ruins of this battlefield. I pull apart the details in my mind- that failing structure, that rumbling tide that won't stop slapping the shore. I think about all the hits we've taken, all the waves we've had to defeat, even as we prepared for the next one. I wonder how many more it'll take before I fall, before my pieces shatter into dust, swept away on the next breeze.

I wonder if my brother sees the same hopeless cycle that I do. I wonder if he too watches his world fall apart over and over and wonders why he even bothers to repair it. After so many years and so much tragedy, I wonder if he still loves the ocean.

I wonder if his light still shines.

And I realize that it does.

I realize that the only reason I'm still standing here is because my brother has not yet given up. He still holds his crumbling walls together somehow; has found a way to push back against these incessant swells that stream through the cracks, flood the floorboards of his bruised heart.

I think he is an idiot for trying so hard to hold onto something that just keeps slipping from his fingers. I think if he were anything but stupid, he would've stopped fighting so damn hard against all of the things that are so obviously beyond his control. I think he is the strongest person I know. I think he is a tattered soul, a shattered shell of blood that somehow still manages to keep his head above the cresting waves that pull apart the sand he stands on. I think he will lose eventually.

And I think I will be right there beside him when that day comes.

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**I'm still taking requests for story ideas and I will try my hardest to get to them after I've finished writing out my longer fic. Once again, I appreciate your comments and thank you for reading! And a side-note to mb64: I have not forgotten your request for something happy! I will find that inspiration =)  
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	3. Silverware

**This is a story about Dean Winchester and this is a story about a tragic hero and those two things are exactly the same. Enjoy =)**

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Silverware

There's that saying about a silver spoon. You know the one. Those who are born with a silver spoon in their mouth are the lucky ones, the ones with all the money and all the power. They are privileged; safe within the walls built around them, the walls built of thin green paper and heavy coins.

But rarely do you hear the story of the boy who was instead born with a silver knife in hand. This tale goes untold, perhaps because it is a rarity, and perhaps because it is almost too tragic to bear.

Because this is the boy who never gets a taste of the silver he clings to. He knows that silver is a weapon used for killing, not a utensil for sitting around the table crowed with food and family. He hasn't known a table like that since he was four years old, and even then, it was never real silver. He thinks about those faded memories from time to time. When the stars close their eyes and won't blink at him and he can't find his way back in from the cold; that is when he longs for the warm remnants of comfort that won't come. That kind of life hasn't folded its arms around him since the world was new for him and the skies were always bright. He didn't even need the stars back then, because back then, the sun never set.

But now he walks in darkness, haunted by the things he has seen and the secrets he must keep. He trudges through a swirling sea of blood that threatens to pull him under completely, sloshes along the soft leather of his boots and seeps into every crevice of his eroding mind. These are the memories he doesn't want and the screams he'll never drown out, and this is the price of knowing too much, too young.

So you see, his silver is always stained and his heart is always heavy, hefting a burden fit for a thousand weary souls who have never tasted the freedom of an open road. He travels such roads often, but it is not without purpose and it is not without consequence. Sometimes these roads feel like home. Sometimes they feel limitless, but this is not the kind of eternity he craves. Because his stomach is sick and all he tastes is the thick red of iron and the slow burn of whiskey that doubles as both sterilizer and painkiller, stitching skin under the glow of a cheap motel lamp as purpling bruises stand out against heavy shadows.

After all he has seen, all he has known, you would think this boy to be unhinged. Maniacal maybe. It seems he is so close to the life he longs for, can feel the slip of cool metal between his fingers as he wields his weapons. Yet still, he is so impossibly far from all that he desires, can never dull the edges of his knives enough to even start to resemble a spoon.

Maybe he _is_ a little crazy then, because he tries anyway. Whittles away at the weapons in his bloodied hands and thinks that maybe if he uses them enough, they'll become something new, something softer and rounder, something that doesn't slice through skin quite so quick anymore.

He tells himself all this, almost partway convinced. But then he sharpens his knives again. It's unavoidable habit, a lesson drilled into his skull and another thing he wishes he could forget.

But blood is red and blood is blue and this boy is a warrior, that much will always be true.

So his weapons are lethal and his eyes are dry and he moves forward, does the job that has been forged into the fabric of his very bones from the time he was small. Maybe he is a little desperate, but he is also a hero, spreading brilliant light along the edges of his fingertips and out through the ends of his hair as he runs toward a death that cannot yet keep its grasp on him. He moves too quickly and he strikes too soon, pulls people away from the monsters that haunt them, even as his own nightmares converge and destroy.

It is a wonder he still stands on two feet, somehow always quick enough to avoid the collapsing walls and black smoke that wage wars inside his head. This boy is tragedy, but he will not let you mourn him. He fights the good fight and he fights it for the one he loves the most and he fights it for those he doesn't know at all. He is a soldier and an unfortunate son, built from the very fires that consume. One day he too will be consumed.

And still, the only way this boy will ever feel the cool sting of silver pass his lips is if he is eating a bullet.

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**Thanks for reading! I'm always up for taking requests, so shoot me a message if you feel so inclined. Otherwise, have a wonderful day. **


	4. Fill in the Gaps

**What a surprise, another story about Dean flippin' Winchester. No spoilers/not set in a particular season (but focused more towards the beginning of the series). This one's been sitting around for a while on my computer so I figured I'd post it. Hope you enjoy!**

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**Fill in the Gaps**

He used to think flexible was the right word for what he was. Always bending moving twisting turning making sure to stay out of everyone else's way. There was no time for arguing, so he didn't. There was no room for error, so he did his best not to make any. Every question needed prompt answer, every dilemma a quick solution. It was either that, or somebody ended up dead. So Dean became...flexible.

There was Dad, a man who seemed to generate his own energy, imposing force that he was. There was Sam, whose fury could rival that of a tornado whenever life got too real or too bloody, slamming ceaselessly against the confined spaces of each run-down motel they had hunkered down in for the night. And then there was Dean, the one who slid into the empty spaces that were left, molding himself perfectly to fill in all the cracks, shaping and reshaping himself until the walls stopped echoing with angry rebuttals and the room fell back into silent, if not grudging, routine.

There was an art to this doing and undoing, this carefully choreographed shifting that Dean Winchester had mastered by the time he hit double digits. This was a complicated balance of push and pull, father and brother, family and duty, and Dean learned it by heart, practiced in front of the mirror and made sure the steps stuck in his brain, subtle but perfectly timed. He knew what to look for, could spot the signs of discontent before Dad or Sam even realized an argument was brewing between them. The same one over and over. Dean realized after a while that his own voice just got lost in the noise, so he stopped screaming so loud. He started to listen instead. He was the shoulder his brother could lean on and the open ears his father could vent to and the mediator that would sometimes have to force them both apart. Dean was security detail and bouncer, a role he filled reluctantly because he could feel the holes it left behind, the spaces he had to vacate to make room for this new job.

And then there was _the_ job. Dean was good at that one, actually enjoyed it for the most part, as long as no one was bleeding by the end of it. He was 'soldier' and 'hunter' and sometimes even 'hero', pulling monsters from beneath the beds of those who never knew to defend themselves in the first place. This was a role Dean wanted desperately to fill, but sometimes he just wasn't quick enough. Sometimes he couldn't hold his shape, couldn't focus on strangers when Sam or Dad screamed his name and blood spilled from their lips. 'Son' and 'brother' were always his most important names.

After hunts like these, Dean became 'doctor' and 'caretaker' and 'help me please'. He dabbed methodically at red ooze and learned to act first and panic later because head wounds bleed a lot and he's still breathing, still breathing. Other times the blood spilled from his own mouth and he became 'patient' and 'hold still' and 'take the damn pills'. This was usually about the time the arguing started up again, when Dean's vision swam and his limbs ached and he couldn't open his eyes long enough to slide back into place between Dad and Sam and the nasty swells that rippled between them.

He didn't mind being the glue. It was in his nature to even out the scales, to 'insert lame joke here' and 'make inappropriate comment there,' just so their family didn't add enough fracture to an already collapsing frame. Dean Winchester pushed hard against that frame, got weighed down by time and absence and reemergence and tragedy. He shaped and reshaped, tried to be the support beams and the roof, the needle and the thread all at once. He lashed out against gravity, screamed a big 'fuck you' to the natural decay that came with flood after flood, water cresting over half-constructed dams he'd never had time to finish.

Dean folded and flipped, rolled and curled and straightened until his edges were worn and the tips of his fingers had eroded into nothing, leaving rough, uneven callouses and a breaking heart. He did this for a long time, became the things everyone else needed him to be until one day, he forgot how to bounce back. He lost his original shape. So he just kept bending and twisting and arcing, just kept sewing himself into the fabric of everybody else's needs so that he wouldn't disappear completely.

This path meant destruction and this road would eventually end in dust, but as long as Dean was still 'brother,' as long as Sam was still there, still breathing in the seat or the bed next to him, he figured he could handle oblivion just fine.

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**Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts if you have a minute!**


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